In Chelsea, of all places.
A fire crackled in the hearth, sending flickering light across dark-paneled walls and exquisite furniture. No clutter. No signs of life. A house seemingly without a resident.
And yet, it had a butler. A cook and a maid as well. The house was spotless, and biscuits did not bake themselves.
Feeling an unexpected prick of irritation, I tucked my gloves more firmly beneath my hands.
It was obvious who resided here. His lover. When he had one, that is. Claire had said he was between mistresses. A man like Steele would need somewhere discreet, somewhere the curious eyes of Mayfair society could not follow.
I was surprised by how much that thought rankled.
"I had not thought Chelsea your preferred neighborhood," I said lightly.
A flicker of amusement passed over his face. "It suits its purpose."
"And what purpose is that?" I asked, sharper than I intended.
"Privacy," he answered simply. "Nothing more."
No mention of mistresses. No denial either.
Infuriating man.
The butler entered with a decanter and two snifters. After he left, Steele splashed generous portions into both. As he handed one to me, his gaze found mine—steady, assessing, always a touch too perceptive for comfort.
“You did take a hackney?”
My hackles bristled. “Of course, I’m not completely devoid of sense.” When he said nothing, I felt ashamed. “I apologize. It’s been a trying day.”
“You carry a lot of responsibilities. More than likely, you’d prefer to be sitting at home, knitting.”
I belted out a laugh. “Not my forte, Steele. When I have the rare few minutes to indulge myself, I read or write.”
“Passionate petitions to the House of Lords?”
“Sometimes, but mostly I keep a journal.”
“And what do you write in it?”
I gazed at him in surprise.
“My turn to apologize. Your thoughts are private.”
“Some are. I won’t share them with you. But others involve the management of the household. Supplies that must be ordered, tasks that must be performed. Once a week, I meet with our housekeeper and discuss them with her.”
“Once Rosehaven marries, his wife will take over that task.”
“My brother hasn’t shown any movement in that direction. But he has time. He’s only eight and twenty.”
“I married when I was five and twenty.”
“That young?”
“I was in love, Lady Rosalynd.”
The words landed between us like a stone dropped in still water.
He came to his feet, restlessness written in every line of his frame. I felt it, too—something unspoken rising between us. Dangerous. Unwise.
